Windows

It’s been said that eyes are windows into the soul,

But what is it to be said of the world beyond those windows?

Care to explain that, perhaps?

Of course not; you’ll simply utter the cliché:

“The world is what you make of it.”

The world is a reflection of my own windows then, is it not?

But consider a world where glass is inevitably blackened,

Stained always and forever upon the soul.

An unrequested soul,

But to whom shall it be returned?

I’d much sooner smash the glass,

Than behold the darkness my windows portray.